OVERCOMING
by Megaroo
Summary: (Don't misconstrue the title, you pervs.) During the "mysterious three years" -- Vegeta learns to overcome, Bulma reads about the ducks in the pond, and the battle of wits goes on...
1. One

WESTERN CAPITAL GENERAL HOSPITAL

accessing main database

accessing patient files

accessing vegeta.wgh...

VEGETA.WGH

Doctor Richard Taber, Ph.D.

8721402

Patient complains of severe pain in left knee following prolonged usage/activity.

Traditional healing methods failed to alleviate symptoms.

Following physical examination, tentative diagnosis of severe patellofemoral syndrome and possibly tendonitis.

Underwent six weeks of physical therapy with no improvement in severity of condition.

Recommend CT scan in eight five-degree increments.

Possible treatment includes lateral release surgery to correct patella malalignment, depending on CT results.

8721414

CT scan results as follows: 56 42 87 16 98 5 23 71

Definite patellofemoral syndrome.

Prime candidate for lateral release surgery.

Reccomend surgery for treatment, followed by 2 weeks of non use and 6 weeks of physical therapy.

Pending patient's decision.

closing vegeta.wgh

closing patient files

disconnecting from main database

Bulma turned off the monitor, leaned back in her computer chair and stretched. Turning to her tacit companion, she asked, "You saw the hospital file, and we've already tried a senzu bean, so do you have any more qualms, Vegeta?"

He sat next to her, brows furrowed in concentration as he took in the hospital's report on the chronic knee pain he'd silently suffered for over a decade with no previous means for respite. She took his stony silence as permission to continue with, "I promise, you'll be in the hospital for barely half the day, the procedure takes all of twenty minutes, during which time you'll be asleep, and I'll be there with you, so you'll be fine."

"I never said I was afraid."

"I never said you were. So there. Now do you want me to make you an appointment with Dr. Taber?"

"Fine." He stood to depart, and by depart I mean limp, to the doorway.

---

"You have four new messages. Message one."

"Hey Bulma, it's Yamcha. Just calling to see how you've been doing since--BEEP!"

"Message deleted. Message two."

"Hello, this is Dr. Richard Taber's office calling in regards to Vegeta's appointment tomorrow. We're sorry but because of personal problems the doctor is unavailable at that time. We can reschedule for nine thirty AM next Tuesday if that's acceptable, please call to confirm. Thank you."

"Message three."

"Hey, it's me again. You wouldn't happen to have my blue sweater lying around over there someplace, would you? I can't seem to find it and, well, I kinda sorta want to wear it tonight, 'cause you always said it made me look ta--BEEP!"

"Message deleted. End of messages."

Finally home, Bulma left the groceries on the table for her mother to sort through, then went up to Vegeta's room to inform him that he had another five days to chill before facing the dreaded anthroscopy. She found him meditating on his bed, sitting Indian-style, a half-melted bag of ice resting on his left knee.

Opening one eye as his host entered, Vegeta quickly shoved the ice onto the mattress next to him, out of view, and waited for her to state her business.

"I know your knee is killing you, so there's no need to hide the evidence. Speaking of which, your surgery's been moved to Tuesday." Biting her lip, she worried at the chance of an outburst of the world's injustice from him. It'd taken her weeks of passively observing him sneaking ice packs and tabs before she realized something about him was physically amiss. Days to convince him to let a medical professional investigate the problem, and hours of detailed argument and discussion of the medical reports to make him realize that this surgery was necessary if he wanted to be able to use that knee without being hounded by almost arthritic aches and pains.

She wondered why she did so much to improve his comfort.

While any other man would've paled at the news, this one just furrowed his eyebrows before tersely stating, "What?"

"Sorry, it got changed. The world is an imperfect place. A few more days to wait won't kill you, nor will the suspense, so just cool it."

"I am cool--"

"Sure you are, hot stuff," she interrupted, inwardly laughing at her own humor, though her companion did not fully comprehend the deeper cultural reference of the joke. "I know that in the time it's taking for this surgery to take place I could've built you a regeneration tank, but you--"

"Those tanks heal flesh wounds, they do not realign ligaments and bones."

"Thank you for that informational update. Like I was saying, you should be grateful that there is a doctor around here willing to do the operation."

He scowled, disturbed that he was being forced to acknowledge, "Since when did I state I wasn't?"

Considering that for a moment, "Point. What are we up to?"

"Me: 27. You: 23."

"This is the last time I allow myself to be dragged into a month-long battle of the wits with you, Vegeta. It deflates my ego and only serves to bolster yours." When he did not answer, she sighed, turning to exit the room. She could only take being in his vicinity for so long, until his uniquely absent personality really started to get to her. "I'll let you get back to... whatever the hell is was you were doing. Remember, Tuesday morning, bright and early."

---

Vivisection:

The cutting of or operation on a living animal.

Or person.

Vegeta had looked it up in a computer once, when he was younger. He'd wanted a name for it.

Monday night arrived faster than he would've liked, but that was life for you. Dinner with the Briefs family had started out in tense silence, giving way to tense normalcy when Bulma fell out of her chair while reaching to pick up a fallen spoon from the floor. This caused her mother to burst into a fit of giggles, as she was sporadically prone to do, and her father to smile behind his coffee cup. Vegeta took little notice of the scene, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, but that was to be expected. Going under the knife does that to one.

Though he refused to discuss his hesitancy towards the procedure with any of the table's other three occupants, that didn't mean he denied himself the luxury of self-examination. He admitted, it wasn't the chopping-up-his-extremities part that bugged him. It was being at someone's mercy while he was completely out of it that got him a bit bothered.

After a dessert composed of some sort of fluffy, sweet, sugary substance, each diner went their separate ways. The older couple retired to the living room to catch a movie on the classics channel, something about a robot named "Johnny Five" that, for some reason, considered itself to be alive. Bulma withdrew to her bedroom and grabbed her nearest banned book; soon she was completely engrossed in the question, "Where _do _the ducks at the pond go in the wintertime?"

Acknowledging that he wasn't going to be getting much sleep that night, for whatever the reason, Vegeta went to bed early, in hopes that the extra time set aside would assuage any ill effects brought on by recurrent sleeplessness.

And nightmares.

_He was ten years old, small for his age, but powerful. It took two of Frieza's full-grown cronies to hold him down on the table that he'd long-ago broken the straps off. A tank of anesthesia sat in a corner of the room, deemed unnecessary, at least for use on just a pathetic monkey. Why try to prevent pain when it was your goal to cause it?_

_Squirming as a cart scattered with various sharp medical implements was wheeled into view, someone hit a pressure point in his neck to stay him. He bit back a scream, refusing to give in to the urge to cry out, no matter the degree of his physical and psychological suffering._

_Frieza__ approached. The bane of his existence terrified him twice over, once just by being present, and again by holding up a shiny, steel, rather painful-looking serrated instrument._

_His fear made him forget himself. He cried out, in an almost extinct, now forbidden language, an act that would surely cause him more pain later on. "Co je tohle? Co chcete? Jdete pryc, Frieza! Ne tak rychle, neco je v neporafku strasny nemocnice! Do prdele! Nechci! Do prdele! Jdete pryc!"_

Accompanied by a loud thumping noise, was a feminine voice calling, "Vegeta! Wake the hell up!"

Now aware of his surroundings, and the present year, he became quiescent as Bulma's pounding on the wall they shared soon ceased. The silence took prevalence in the atmosphere for a minute, then was broken by, "Good. Now try to actually get some rest, we have a busy day tomorrow."

He did not reply. Though the nightmares were infrequent, it still angered him when they occurred. Granted, no one had ever entered his room to awaken him from one, for which he considered himself extremely lucky. But he knew that the entire household was aware of the problem. Not that he should care.

Though he did.

----

Nightmares were such a pain in the ass.

That was all Vegeta deemed necessary to admit to himself in the blackness of his room. His nighttime visions were never entirely accurate depictions of past realities, just twisted perversions resulting from latent fears and unexpressed animosities. All of that particular night's grief was borne from a bad bout of childhood appendicitis, compounded by not nearly enough anesthesia present in his thick Saiya-jin bloodstream, and the entire operation being performed by a certain white lizard that had, for a time, a passing interest in the medical arts.

The young man still bore the scars from the resulting first--and, invariably, last--attempt at healing instead of destroying.

But still? the seemingly innocuous facts entwined in the memory did nothing to assuage the pit of anxiety that appeared in his stomach every time he thought about that which was taking place in the morning. Phobias were such highly inconvenient things, he concluded, so it was no large surprise realizing he'd unconsciously formed one over the years, just to be a nuisance to him. Fate was like that. After tomorrow, Vegeta decided he'd find a way of overcoming that particular weakness before it became too much of a liability. There would be no more of this worrying crap, after tomorrow.

_That is the LAST TIME I eat a bite of Mom's "secret recipe special macaroni and cheese,"_ Bulma thought to herself as she exited the bathroom around four a.m., rubbing her eyes with her knuckles as she headed back down the hallway to her blesséd, warm, sleep-inducing room. There was a half-full, soon-to-be-empty bottle of Imodium AD in there, more precisely, in her handbag resting on the dresser, with her name on it.

However, as she passed Vegeta's door, she couldn't help but give in to the urge to peek in and check on him. If judging his screams by volume and portent, this had not been his worst nightmare to date; she was concerned nonetheless about his emotional state considering the circumstances. He never spoke a direct word about it, but there was still an almost tangible anxiety about him whenever the subject of correcting the developmental problem with his knee was brought forth.

Luckily, the prince appeared to be in quiet repose at the moment, when Bulma's eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to discern his appearance. One would think that, being oblivious to the rest of the universe at the time, his features would smooth out as he slept, and he'd cease his ferocious scowling. Such was not the case, however, and even when he wasn't dreaming of past transgressions made by or against him, that ever-present frown and furrowed eyebrows prevailed.

It was almost like that signature expression on his face had been chiseled out of granite. The same with indifference. He frequently wore that mask, as well.

Breathing a sigh of relief that all was well in the universe, the woman retreated back to the familiarity and normalcy of her own living space. She had a foreboding feeling in the pit of her stomach where tomorrow was concerned, and any missed sleep was bound to worsen the stress. When she got up again in a few hours, the first thing she planned to do was brew a double pot of coffee, with extra for the road. Because of the effects of the drugs and the surgery, she was pegged to drive the reluctant Saiya-jin to and from the hospital. Hopefully he'd still be lost in his thoughts during both trips, so she wouldn't have to attempt conversation.

----

As the Briefs family usually rose at different times every morning, breakfast was rarely a family affair, and Tuesday was no exception, leaving the younger generation to dine with only each other. Just as he had last night, Vegeta spoke very little, allowing Bulma to try to maintain a cheerful conversation all by herself. After a few minutes she got the hint, and sipped her second cup of coffee in relative silence. The man's entire being seemed that much more reserved, and she couldn't help but compare this image of him to the Vegeta he'd been at the time of when he wished to Earth from Namek. She remembered him standing on the grassy ground, laughing and loudly gloating about how, now that his two greatest adversaries were (presumed) dead, he was free to do whatever he pleased. That included destroying the planet and taking over the universe. Of course, these seemingly schizophrenic actions of his only led those around him to stare, wondering if dying has done something to his brain.

And now... Now, sitting silently at the table, watching her pick at her plate of scrambled eggs, he seemed to almost be a completely different person. _Maybe I should ask Dr. Taber about the effects surgery can have on people like Vegeta?Though, people like him are, admittedly, few and far between._

Leaving her empty plate where it was for someone else to clean up, Bulma stood and glanced around for her keys and purse. "It's almost nine. We'd better start heading over to the hospital so you can get this over with."

She was rewarded with a look that clearly stated, _Don't__ patronize me._

--Which she promptly ignored. "Unless, of course, you'd rather just sit here staring at the table like a catatonic. I'll be in the car."

An answer followed, one which the woman had definitely not expected.

"I am not afraid."

His steadfast gaze slightly perturbed her as he made that solemn declaration, looking for all the world as if it were true. The paler than usual color of his normally ruddy face gave his true feelings away, though. "Did I say you were?"

"You implied it. Close enough."

"Well I apologize, O Fearless One. Just remember, I promised to be there when they knock you out and when you wake up, so that's what I'm going to do, whether you like it or not!"

"Why?"

"Why the hell not?" When no reply was forthcoming, she continued gleefully, "Point for me! That makes 24. I'm gaining on you."

"Like hell," he grumbled, standing from the table and making his way across the kitchen tiles to the outside door, where he paused to look over his shoulder at her. "Coming?"

Bulma swiftly grabbed her travel mug off the counter and into it poured the rest of the contents of the coffee pot. Steadily sipping it as she crossed the lawn to her car, she abstractly wondered how in the world she would ever be able to function without her daily dose of caffeine.


	2. Two

He hadn't nearly been this nervous at the pre-op almost two weeks ago, Bulma noted on the way to Western Capital General Hospital, shifting her car into gear and hitting the accelerator. Then, she'd been allowed to accompany Vegeta to the inner rooms of the hospital, where the staff did blood work and took his vital signs. He was even relaxed enough for his respiratory rate and blood pressure to seem normal, a detail that had inherently worried Bulma. No one ever mentioned his unusual blood type. Probably because she'd accidentally hacked into the hospital computer mainframe and accidentally chanced it from "unknown" to "O", a type she knew from experience he was compatible with. No one survives a gravity room explosion without ample assistance from things like sutures and transfusions.

Afterwards the nurse had led the pair to a small office housing a borderline-obsolete desktop computer, and motioned for each to take a seat. Thence came the customary question and answer, 200-question session on the patient's medical history. Bulma had received her next two shocks of the day when Vegeta not only answered the questions calmly, but with an amazing degree of honesty.

Any broken bones?

"Left leg seventeen times, right leg twelve times, left arm twenty-one times, right arm thirty-two times, collar bone eight times, pelvis three times. Ninety-three in all, along with ribs several hundred times. I've also had about fourteen skull fractures and a large number of concussions."

Needless to say, the young nurse had a lot of typing to do.

"Any... um, childhood diseases?" She asked, as if mortified by the prospect of typing anything else into his file.

"When I was fourteen I came down with a sickness similar to polio, I believe. I am unaware of its actual scientific name, but I was waylaid by it for eight months. It is probably the main cause of my lack of height." He leaned back in his chair and frowned at Bulma, perhaps just remembering her presence and not being very happy with it.

"Anything else? Hernia, ulcer, appendicitis..?"

His eyebrows drew together, and his face might have paled the slightest degree, though both women present assumed it was a simple trick of the lighting. "Appendicitis, age ten."

"How was it treated?"

"Surgery." Voice terse and clipped, Vegeta stared intently at a spot on the wall on the opposite side of the tiny room.

"Was the surgery successful?"

"Probably not."

He would not respond to any other questions about the treatment of that particular problem, so the nurse progressed in her data collecting. The rest of the pre-op appointment went by without much of a hitch, except for when the anesthesiologist appeared. The Saiya-jin would not stop glaring the entire time the tall dark man spoke, and frequently interrupted to get assured that the sedation was almost one hundred percent effective and no, he would not remember any of the experience.

Bulma pulled out of her musings as she pulled into a parking place at Western Capital General. This was going to be a long day.

----

"I hate you!"

"Oh yeah? Well I hate you, you little prick!"

"Screw you!"

"Like hell I will! I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole, much less allow your dirty paws on me!"

"Shut the hell up! You're so full of it!"

"I'M full of it?"

"Do I stutter?"

"That's IT! You're sleeping on the couch for the rest of your life!"

"Good! Maybe then I'll actually get some sleep!"

After the relative quietude of the drive there, the volume of the altercation in the waiting room of Western Capital General Hospital served to be an abrupt change for anyone entering the building at that time. Struggling away from the two orderlies attempting to hold her back, a blonde woman was managing to chuck numerous random objects and some pregnancy pamphlets at the red-faced man standing opposite her. He, however, only threw insults.

The commotion was broken for a short time when a tall doctor, carrying a clipboard in her right hand, approached the apparent future mother and spoke to her in hushed tones. That respite was short-lived, for the blonde resumed her frenzied tirade more vehemently than before, screaming, "I can't believe you did this to me, you stupid oaf! TWINS! You f--"

And that was when the father passed out, and Bulma jogged down the hall to catch up with the slowly retreating Vegeta.

The required forms had been filled out and signed during the last appointment, so the pair only needed to sign in at the desk in the hospital waiting room. All such places seemed to require an unbearably long wait, the length of which was directly proportional to the degree of apprehension felt by the patient. Bulma had not wanted to be there all day, so when she'd confirmed this appointment she specifically asked that Vegeta be administered to immediately.

Before they'd even managed to get comfortable on the padded benches lining the walls, a short middle-aged nurse with graying hair and arthritic fingers approached and beckoned them to follow her. "We have a bed ready for you, Vegeta. There's a hospital gown on it you'll need to change in to, and then when you're ready I'll insert the IV and start giving you some sedation. Is that all right?"

He nodded silently in response, and when they came to the curtained partition, he stepped out of view. Bulma took a seat in a nearby chair and, to pass the time, pulled out a banned book about a mental hospital run by a rather large female medical practitioner. A few seconds later?

"What the HELL is this, some sort of DRESS?" an enraged voice demanded.

Bulma chuckled. "It's just a hospital gown, Vegeta. The open part goes in the back. Do you need me to tie it for you?"

"NO! What is it with you always trying to get me into women's clothing?!"

The chuckle turned into an outright laugh. "No reason, Vegeta. No reason at all."

When the nurse returned with the IV and pulled the curtain back, Vegeta was sitting up on the bed with the thin hospital blanket pulled up to his midsection. He sent a pointed look to Bulma. "Your presence is not required."

"You want me to leave?"

The look on his face above the neckline of that light blue fabric affirmed it.

"What? How come?" She asked, confused.

"Because I don't want you here, _obviously_! Can't you take a hint? Get the hell out!"

Standing, she eyed him testily and before storming out the swinging door, said in a scornful tone, "Fine! I'll just go sit in the _waiting room_, where there are _nice, friendly_ people to talk to! Not like _here._"

Vegeta watched her go, and sighed. The nurse, who had been present during the entire exchange preparing his left hand for the IV, raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. "Embarrassed?"

He glowered.

"Thought so. She a friend or a girlfriend?"

"Neither."

"Ah. Love. So much worse for you, isn't it?" She inserted the needle under his skin. "It'll feel weird at first, but after a while, once everything kicks in, you'll be glad it's there."

----

In the waiting room, that first hour of, well, waiting, was longer than it should have been for Bulma, sitting on the bench by herself. The only other people present were either coughing so hard they were probably infecting everyone within a ten foot radius with whatever was ailing them, or were too busy filling out forms to spare a moment to chat with the blue-haired woman holding perfectly acceptable reading material. And it was a good book. Banned, too. Even better. But one can only read the same page over and over so many times before having it memorized well enough not to need to read it. Bulma knew how that was like.

Finally, that same nurse who'd been laughing on the inside while observing her and Vegeta's little spat earlier, stuck her head in the door and motioned her inside. "They're getting ready to take him into the operating room, so you can come in and say something quick to him if you like before he goes in."

Bulma stood slowly and in the same manner walked through the door; she didn't want to seem anxious or rushed. Because she wasn't. Not at all.

He was completely horizontal now, the IV tube taped to his hand and the blankets pulled further up his chest. Slightly drowsy, he was nevertheless alert enough to scowl when he noticed her approach.

"Don't even start with that, Vegeta, I only came to wish you luck, that's all, I'm not going to deride you or call you weak or take pictures of you in a hospital gown so just chill the hell out."

"It's cold enough in here," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Keep talking so it will warm up."

"_Ha. Ha._ Point for you. Yay. When I catch up you're really going to get it, you know that?"

He continued rubbing his eyes and didn't respond. It was getting near the time for him to be moved to the operating room, an annoying prospect in itself. As if on cue, a young intern who might have been considered eye candy had Bulma not been looking at the smorgasbord on the bed, came forward and took hold of the end railing.

"Ready to go, Vegeta?" The nurse asked, much to her own chagrin. To her, simply observing the patients was more enjoyable than treating them. Not for the first time did she wish she'd gone into experimental psychology instead of the nursing profession.

"Vegeta? We're going to go down to the operating room now, okay?"

The patient in question did not respond, nor did he even seem to hear her as he stared up at the ceiling, memories flickering across his mind, more noticeable now thanks to the uninhibiting effects of the preliminary sedation. Bulma in turn looked at his face, wondering at his naturally indifferent expression but obvious lack of composure. A hand trembled; he clenched his fist. Eyebrows drawn, his eyes squeezed shut, and he took a deep breath, relaxing slightly as he released the air.

"_Do prdele._"

"I take it that's some sort of swear word?"

He opened his eyes and gave the blue one staring above him a quick glance and raised eyebrow. "You don't get points for guesses."

In turn, she smirked much like he was prone to, as she walked alongside the rolling bed. The double doors, through which she'd already been informed she was not permitted to foray, were opening just ahead of them. "Maybe not, but I must get some points for this."

She bent over and gave him a quick smack on the mouth, then stepped away, grinning cheekily. He brought his hand to his lips in surprise, and as the doors shut behind him, they cut off his yell of, "WHAT the FU--"

By the time Vegeta, the nurse, and the intern had reached their final destination, he was still grumbling quite loudly to himself. He barely noticed when the operating room staff transferred him from the bed to the table, placed four electrodes on his chest to monitor his heart and breathing, and injected the necessary anesthesia into his IV. When the oxygen mask was placed over his mouth, he got a vague impression that he'd worn one before, and immediately went to sleep, without once wondering where the evil white lizard with a scalpel was.

That was probably the point.

----

Vegeta had been wheeled back to his cubicle on the gurney several hours ago. Bulma sat in a chair near his head, alternating between reading the last chapter of her book and glancing at the still-unconscious man next to her. In the middle of one of these surreptitious actions, she started upon seeing Goku shimmer into the previously empty air before her. Needless to say, she was slightly surprised.

"Goku! What the hell are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?"

Eyes wide, he took in their surroundings and replied, "Well, if I did, you sure are in the right place!"

"What do you want, Goku?"

As affronted as the chronically cheerful man could be, "Hey, is that the way you treat me? Your oldest friend?"

"Yes," she said shortly. "What do you want?"

"Okay fine then. Chichi sent me to find you. She wants to borrow one of your banned books for Gohan. Something about trying to further his studies and awareness of the world beyond martial arts. Whatever that means." He shrugged.

Bulma tossed her current reading material at his chest and grinned at the thought of little Gohan gaining her unique appreciation for literature. "And there's more where that came from, make no mistake."

"Thanks a million, Bulma." Goku returned the smile with an incredibly less malevolent version of his own, then turned to look at the third occupant of their semi-private room. "Say, how's Vegeta doing? Your mom told me about the surgery a few weeks ago when I stopped in. How's he taking it?"

"Oh, he was too angry at me when he was going into it to have any other kind of problems."

"Why's that? What did you do?"

Bulma blushed waggled her eyebrows.

"Oh. _That._" He laughed outright, needing no further explanation. They weren't best friends for nothing. "Well, tell him I said hi. Seeya later!"

And with that, he popped back out of sight.

About twenty minutes later, Bulma returned from the bathroom to find Vegeta awake, blinking and looking around the room. In a quieter and less imperious version of his usual voice, he demanded, "Where the hell have you been?"

She raised her arms in defeat and, to hide her relief at his apparent lucidity, deadpanned, "Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go."

"Whatever."

Returning to her seat after hitting the call button on the side of the bed, "Your grasp of the human art of expression is truly astounding."

At that, the same nurse from earlier parted the curtain and stepped in, several crackers and a cup of ginger ale in hand. "Bickering already? You two should get married. But first, I need you, Vegeta, to eat some of this. Just as much as your stomach allows, don't go making yourself nauseous."

He complied and, taking a bite out of the first saltine, passed out before swallowing it.

"He won't remember any of today because of his meds. Try to make sure the majority of his food goes down the right pipe," she admonished Bulma before walking off to perform other nursely duties.

Vegeta woke up again a few seconds later and continued chewing as if he never stopped.

"I suggest you swallow first, then fall asleep."

He finished eating, sparing her his customary Evil Glare, too intent on completing his task.

Bulma took the empty wrappers and paper cup off the table and tossed them in the trash can behind her chair, then asked, "How are you feeling?"

He frowned. "So this is what it's like to be on pain medication."

Intrigued, she took advantage of this new openness of his to gain more information, "Haven't you ever been on it before?"

"Nope," he responded, making as if to shake his head and then stopping before he unwittingly gave himself a headache.

"But what about all those injuries you talked about at the pre-op?"

"Either I was unconscious and couldn't feel it or I just didn't get anything. Duh."

Bulma leaned towards him, elbows on the bed, resting her chin on her steepled fingers. "It seems your medication has done something to your vocabulary inhibitions, Vegeta. As in, removed them."

"I know. Pisses me off, too. Almost as much as the time Frieza cut off my hair with one of his lame-assed frizbee attacks. Took me months to grow it back. He took a picture while I was in the tank and put it up all over the ship. Every where I looked some poor excuse for a warrior was laughing at a poster of me with no clothes on and a buzz cut." He paused. "Gods, why the hell am I talking so much?"

"It's the medication, I told you that before."

Frowning, "You did? No you didn't."

"Yes I did, and don't you dare start a brain battle with me today, Vegeta, because you're in no shape for it and when I win I intend to beat you fair and bloody square, got that?"

His eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking me so many question? Just get to the point and then shut up."

"Why do you have such a fear of getting operated on?" She winced, waiting for a scathing reply or some such defense mechanism.

"Early childhood experiences, isn't that what your famous human psychoanalyst decided?"

"Yes, but what _happened_? It was something to do with that case of appendicitis, right?"

His eyes closed, but whether or not it was of his own accord was unknown to his audience. "Yes. I got sick. I needed surgery. Frieza decided to..."

"To what?"

"He decided he wanted to..."

The Saija-jin prince passed out.

"Damn."

----

"How's he holding up?"

Bulma glanced up at the nurse from her perusal of Vegeta's facial profile. "He wakes up, eats half a cracker, grumbles about being perfectly fine and ready to go back home... And then falls back asleep again."

"Well, as soon as he can keep himself conscious for five minutes, we'll load him up and get him out of here," she replied, much against her will. This pair danced around each other more than the contestants at a tango competition -- except their contest was more along the lines of the horizontal mambo. _I give it six weeks._

A whispered curse came from the bed, and both females looked at its occupant. Vegeta was rubbing his eyes with his hand; when his fingers left his face it was noticeable that the drugs for the most part had worn off -- the frown lines on his forehead had returned. "When the hell can I get out of here?"

The nurse began bustling in her familiar manner. She called for an attendant to fetch the wheelchair that would be taking her prickly patient to the parking circle by the front door. The anesthesiologist appeared and checked on him one last time, removing the IV and quickly leaving before the patient burned holes in his lab coat. Bulma left the room while said patient changed back into his street clothes.

"You've got a script here for Darvoset from Dr. Taber," the nurse said as Vegeta reluctantly settled in the wheelchair and Bulma returned to his side. "Take one every four to six hours or when the pain returns, but don't exceed six per day, all right?"

She waited for his short nod before continuing. "These are effective, but they'll leave you feeling a little loopy right after each dose. Don't operate any heavy machinery, and I suggest not making any life-changing decisions while you're on these, as you might have trouble remembering at a later date all the things you've said and did while taking this medication. Once the pain goes down in a week or two, you can shift back to taking regular painkillers like Ibuprofen. Okay?"

He waved his hand in a dismissive manner, clearly done with her ramblings. Bulma smiled and said conspiratorially, "Don't worry, I've got it."

They signed out at the desk, then walked, or in the prince's case, rolled down the hallway they'd gone up early that morning, to the front door of the hospital. Doing her best not to let him see her grin, the nurse waited with Vegeta as Bulma pulled the car into the pick-up circle. The prince crossed the short distance to the passenger seat as dignified as he could, hopping on one foot, and once there, leaned back, closing his eyes.

Bulma glanced at him out of the corner of her eye every so often on the drive back to Capsule Corporation. In all appearances he seemed to be asleep. Except his breathing. Controlled intakes of air without the steadiness the unconscious afforded it. She took her hand off the gearshift and placed it over his own -- squeezing slightly, not expecting a response. But one was elicited; she felt her worry slip away as his fingers squeezed back.


	3. Three

Two weeks. Two weeks he had been in this situational hell. He'd broken his crutches the second day of his forced confinement (only on account of his sleeping through the first day after the surgery) – although _broken _wasn't exactly the right word for it. _Tied them into a pretzel and thrown them out the window_ would be more accurate. Levitating from the couch to the bathroom wasn't difficult but with the disorientation from the pain medication, Vegeta occasionally found himself floating horizontally, wondering why the couch was nailed to the wall.

Then there were his… caretakers. Mrs. Briefs, surprisingly enough, wasn't terribly difficult to put up with – she spent a large amount of her time in the kitchen cooking him homemade chicken soup and watching her soap operas on the television in that room. Occasionally he heard her yelling things about affairs and illegitimate children and doors that a person shouldn't go through. Bulma was another story. She was always around – always! If she wasn't typing away at her laptop or reading one of her ridiculous books, she was nagging at him, "All right, Vegeta?"   
"Need anything, Vegeta?" "Did you take your medication, Vegeta?"

Naturally, he was at his wit's end. He did not like being coddled. He did not like being fussed over. He did not like being forbidden to leave the couch. He did not like the fact that every time Bulma leaned over to speak to him he got a perfect view of her cleavage and was heartily intrigued. He did not like it one bit.

Worse, every so often, she would draw him into conversation - small barbs, interspersed with softly witty comments and vague inquiries into his psychological well-being. The first two he didn't mind, since he was used to her taunts and witticisms, but the third was snooping, plain and simple, and it was a foolish person indeed who took advantage of the Prince of the Saiyans' medically loosened tongue.

They discussed vestigial organs. Apparently humans didn't use their tail bones anymore; what a shame. "The appendix is the same way," she explained. "Say, whatever happened to yours?"

"It's none of your business," he ground out. That was the fourth time she'd innocuously demanded details, and he was about ready to give in to his urge to kill her. Messily.

Bulma, sensing a confession, continued her prodding. "Come on, I already know a little, why don't you just give me the whole story?"

"Can you accept that there are certain parts of my life that I don't want to talk about? Or have you at all know about?"

She leaned back into her chair and played with the book in her hands. "I thought talking about it might help, Vegeta. That's what we do on this planet."

"Oh, you and your planet. You and your effing planet!"

Indignant, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Vegeta finally felt the full effects of his latest Darvoset, with just enough time before he nodded off to curl up a bit into the side of the couch, and mutter petulantly, "Go away."

When the dark curtain of a drug-induced slumber finally pulled back again, Vegeta came to a decision. No more of this torture.

"Oh Vegeta dear, you're awake!" chirped the blonde woman as she walked into the living room. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, actually," he replied, pulling himself into a sitting position against the arm of the couch. "Stock the gravity room with two weeks' worth of food and water and gas it up."

"Well sure, I'll take care of it! Now you just lie there and relax while I go get that done. Would you like some more chicken soup while you're awake? And some pastries?"

He smirked. "Sure."

Bulma would kill him for this. He could see it now: she would rant and rave at him over the video phone until he smashed it again. Then she would pout the entire time he was gone, only to ignore him upon his return and complain loudly about his food intake.

For an escape from this torture, he could handle that bit of petulance on her part.

He did not take his pain medication that hour. Nor did he take the next required dose four hours later when Bulma tried to shove it down his throat; he kept the pill in his mouth till it dissolved, and when she wasn't looking, spit it into his cup of ginger ale.

Clear-headed once again, ignoring the pain as much as possible, Vegeta waited until after midnight to float himself off of the couch and outside to the gravity room. Firing up the engines was a painfully loud but blessedly short necessity, and by the time Bulma and her family ran outside to discover the cause of the noise, he was already lifting off and, moments later, shooting through the atmosphere.

Not five minutes had passed before he felt another presence in the spaceship. He spun around to face his adversary, trying not to let the pain from his knee show in his face. "Kakarott! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I could ask the same of you, Vegeta," the other replied calmly, his good-natured persona fading slightly to the background as he eyed the older Saiyan. "Where ya goin'?"

"Away!"

Goku took a step forward and paused at the other's warning glare. "Bulma's worried, says you're not thinking straight because of the drugs you're on."

"I haven't taken them all day, tell her to mind her own business!"

"You could tell her yourself if you hadn't smashed the video phone."

"I didn't smash it, I turned it off."

The questions were never-ending! "She wants to know why you're leaving when you still need to recover."

"I can heal on my own, Kakarott, I've done it a thousand times before, I don't need that nosy woman fussing over me as if I were a child! I will do this on my own! Now get out!"

Knowing this was not a battle he could win, Goku shrugged. "Okay, well, she gave me some books for you in case you get bored. She also said to tell you she hopes an asteroid comes along and knocks some sense into you!"

With that and a grin, Goku vanished without a trace, save for the three books resting on the floor. Resisting the urge to burn them and roast hot dogs over the flames (mainly because Mrs. Briefs hadn't packed any hot dogs), Vegeta instead picked them up to put them someplace out of the way. The title caught his eye. "_The Lord of the Rings_. Interesting."

Deep in orbit nine days later, Vegeta floated over to the window with his TV dinner and watched the clouds on the Earth slowly shift and change. The wisps of white floating over emerald and blue instilled a rare sense of peace within him; it was at this time that he was able to honestly reflect on these past few weeks.

When he first agreed to the surgery, he'd had more nightmares, more twisted flashbacks of his time with Frieza that he had, until then, more or less managed to repress. A fear had grown at the back of his mind that this new foray into the medical world would only give those nighttime terrors more material to work with. That, though physically healed, emotionally he'd be worse off than ever before. But… that wasn't the case, in the end. Since he'd gotten off the pain drugs and their resultant drowsiness, he'd slept peacefully. There was no Frieza, no Dr. Taber, no anesthesiologist haunting his dreams. The only conclusion he could come up with was that this experience, far from adding more power to his past pains, had… healed him, somehow.

__

So absurd, he reflected._ That such a small experience could change things so much._

He'd journeyed into an unfamiliar world. and somewhere along the way, thirty years of indignation, humiliation, and rage had cooled. Of course, he still hated Frieza with a passion that rivaled the fires of Hell (and the dead bastard knew it). He still had the all-encompassing urge to kick Kakarott's ass into the next dimension, then brag about it for, oh, say, a century and a half at least. But now, in-between training, eating, and suppressing a fantasy or two about a certain blue-haired woman, he could sleep without dreams. Without fear.

Vegeta decided that, should he ever actually go through with his plan to raze the planet to the ground, he would give Western Capital General Hospital a wide berth.

When he could walk without pain in 100x the Earth's gravity, Vegeta decided it was time to return to Capsule Corp and complete his training on solid ground. He checked the computer navigation system, engaged the thrusters, closed all the cupboards, and re-entered the planet's atmosphere right around lunchtime, approximately thirteen days after leaving. He landed in the backyard some fifteen minutes later, in the same place the room had been before, judging from the shallow depression in the ground and the yellowing of the grass.

Grabbing the duffel bag filled with _very_ dirty laundry and other such necessities, he lowered the ramp and walked into the sunshine with no sign of a limp. The family was having a barbecue. Dr. Briefs noted the return of their errant houseguest by muttering, "Oh, Vegeta's back," and tossing five more hamburgers on the grill.

Bulma left her book on the patio table and stalked up to Vegeta, stopping directly in his path, her face already turning red. A few feet away from her, he, too, halted, and waited.

"That was stupid," she began, her voice high and loud, obviously referring to his decision to blast out of the atmosphere whilst high on pain medication.

"It worked," he replied gruffly.

"It was still stupid."

He smirked. "I was right, and you're just pissed off."

Her hands flew out and grabbed him by the collar. He barely even noticed the slight tug. "I'm pissed off because you almost got yourself killed!"

He pushed her hands away, nonchalantly. "So it's the situation you're angry at, not me in particular."

"Who are you to give a lecture on anger?"

"Why must you always invent things to be angry at?"

"I repeat, who are you to give a lecture on anger, Mister Kakarott-Must-Die?"

"Who are you to fuss over me and tell me what to do? Huh? Why the hell do you think I left if not because of you?"

At this, Bulma's lips trembled. She pressed them together in a thin line, stuck her nose proudly into the air, and stalked back into the house. The slamming of the door was the only further indication of her feelings at the moment – the glass in the door had shattered brilliantly.

Vegeta grabbed the hamburger Dr. Briefs offered him a moment later, and, paying little attention, took an enormous bite. He chewed for a moment, and then an odd look crossed his face before he spat it out in disgust. "Old man! You're supposed to cook the meat _before_ you serve it!"

"Sorry Vegeta," Bulma's father said. "My mistake."

"Point for me."

"Vegeta!" Bulma jumped at the sound of his voice and spun around in her desk chair to stare at him reproachfully.

"Are you finished being angry, or do I need to leave the planet again?" He asked her from his place in the doorway of her private study.

"If you leave the planet again, I'm enclosing the property in a bio dome to spite you. Because, God forbid, I actually like having you around."

"Do you?"

"Except when you act like a _jerk_!"

"According to some, that would be all the time." He grinned, walked into the room to sit on the end of her desk, and continued, "So you like having me around, is all? I seem to remember your actions indicating something more, when I was being wheeled into the operating room."

"That was meant to distract you," she protested.

"Well, it worked."

Bulma frowned, considering. "So I suppose we're both guilty of doing stupid shit in order to achieve our goals."

He leaned forward. "Bingo."

"Allright then. You won. What do you want?"

"You know what I want," he said softly, staring at her hungrily.

She returned his stare, grinning slyly, then reached for the phone. "Twelve Sicilian pizzas, coming right up."

"Remember, no mushrooms!"


	4. Four

Two years and some odd months later…

She peeled the garish blue spandex off his body, carefully, gently. He groaned a little in his sleep. It was far past midnight; the Cell games had ended hours ago, but this fighter had only just now returned to Capsule Corp. Covered in grime and dry sweat and blood and tears, he had fallen into unconsciousness as soon as he reached his bed. Bulma had taken it upon herself to make him a bit more comfortable, lest he be even more cranky than usual upon awakening. She remembered when he used to wake up next to her.

She remembered the worry and longing she'd felt when he'd first left.

She pulled the tight leggings away, brushed her fingers over the two small scars on his knee.

She remembered the taste of the pizza. The taste of his skin.

She didn't remember what caused the fight that made him leave the second time, two months before the arrival of the androids. But, for whatever reason, he'd been gone for a long while, only returning when the time had come to fight. As a Super Saiyan. Since then, this was the first they'd been in a room together without breaking something or straining vocal cords.

He groaned and rolled onto his stomach.

She placed her hands on his back and began kneading softly. The muscles were tight with tension, even now. She remembered when he used to relax, when he would give her a massage just like this, rubbing circles down her spine with his thumbs, as she slouched forward over her pregnant belly. She remembered when he was excited about his son.

She wondered if he'd cared when Future Trunks had been shot down.

He groaned, and muttered, "A little lower."

Her hands stilled, and he opened his eyes. He took in her form, sitting on her knees next to him, clad in her soft yellow pajamas that clung to her hips. "Why did you stop?"

Bulma began to edge off the bed. "I need to go check on Trunks."

"He's fine," Vegeta replied, reaching out to stop her.

"I should go check."

A sigh. "The boy is fine. His older self is giving him a bottle, I can hear them in the next room. Stop fussing."

"Actually, I wasn't fussing, I just needed an excuse to escape your presence."

He sat up in bed, so as to look into her face on the level. "You feel I'm someone to flee from?" He asked testily.

"If the last few days are anything to go by, then yes." She paused, uncertain, then asked tentatively, "When will you be leaving again?"

He knew that the battle had begun. "When do you want me to leave?"

"Ha! When have you ever done what I wanted?"

Were he a softer, more sensitive man, he might have taken her hands to make his solemn pledge. But he was Vegeta; as such, he settled for gazing intently into her eyes as he said, "I will this time."

Simply, "I don't believe you. I deserve to be treated better, Vegeta. I deserve better than what you've given me."

"I've given you a son."

Bulma by this time had backed off the bed to stand next to it, and from this position she was able to increase the volume of her voice and gesticulate angrily. "Whom you don't even love! You don't love anyone on this planet." _Including me_, she thought to herself, but kept it silent, uneasy about bringing up such a _paltry emotion_.

Somehow, he seemed to know what she was thinking. "I'm working on it."

"It's the riddle of your being, isn't it? You expect another chance without ever having to ask for one."

"Is there any other part of my being that you're inclined to bring to task tonight? Shall I give you a list, perhaps, and when you're done you can finish off with a good kick in the balls?"

"Don't try to trick me into simply insulting you without addressing my real concerns." She leaned forward, staring him in the face, pointed figure leveled at his chest, "You" –poke- "ran" –poke- "out" –poke- "on" –poke- "me. I understand your reasons for doing so, but that doesn't mean that I'm going to let you do it to me again, somewhere along the line."

"You don't trust me any more." The statement was not a question. He'd hoped, during the long hours he'd spent wandering the desert that day, that he'd be able to painlessly move back into the space he'd occupied in the family just a few months prior. But the world was no longer the way it was before, even though he desperately needed something to hold on to now.

"No, I don't."

"You will. I'll make sure of that."

"And how are you going to accomplish that?"

"Bulma, Cell is gone. The Androids are gone. Kakarott is gone. I've got nothing left to do in this world except raise my son and make sure you don't screw him up too much."

"I think we have tangible evidence that I turn out to be a pretty good mother."

"Point for you."

"Bulma: 1, Vegeta: 0."

**The End. **(for real, this time)


End file.
